


A Highland Adventure (1899)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [176]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Fetish Clothing, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, Kilts, M/M, Murder, Scotland, Surprises, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 08:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock travels to the top of the British mainland to break another unbreakable alibi – and then leaves his friend standing at the station!





	A Highland Adventure (1899)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the affair at Foulkes Rath'. A _skean-dhu_ (meaning 'hidden knife') is a small, curved knife, part of the traditional Scottish dress and kept in the owner's long-socks.

If Mr. Wells was right and there was indeed life on the Red Planet, I thought to myself, then it should come here. It would feel right at home! Only the gentle swaying of the train as we bowled across the tundra suggested anything akin to civilization, and it seemed an eternity since the last station or sign of human activity. I snuggled next to the human heater beside me, and he wrapped an obliging arm around me.

Sherlock and I had come north in response to a telegram from a Sergeant Jophiel Duffy of the Caithness Constabulary, in the most northerly part of mainland Great Britain. We had been summoned late the previous evening with precious little information except, bizarrely, that the crime involved was murder by _skean-dhu_ , which was.... well, unusual. We had been fortunate enough to make the night sleeper at Euston, and Sherlock had let me sleep most of the way. 

Well, most of it. Even gentlemen in their late forties had needs!

We had changed earlier in the day to the Highland Railway Company's metals at Perth, after which our progress had slowed considerably (we were, I supposed, fortunate in that the direct Aviemore-Inverness line had opened the year before, cutting over twenty miles off our journey, but it did not feel like it). Now, what with us just having passed the longest day of the year, our far northerly latitudes meant that the grey light was still strong as our train juddered to a halt at Dunlochlann Halt, a decrepit one-platform affair whose pitiful, windswept condition matched our exhausted moods.

Sergeant Duffy was waiting for us in a cab, ready to take us to the scene of the crime at Foulkes Rath, the largest house in the area. The policeman was a huge red-haired fellow who was clearly apologetic at having dragged us all the way up here, but insistent that we would find this case 'a challenge'.

“Why?” Sherlock asked pointedly. The sleeper train had only provided tea, not coffee, which had made him tetchy all day. A cup of something that had called itself coffee but had smelled like ditch-water, which I had snaffled during a brief pause at Inverness, had not helped.

“The lads at the station love your stories, doctor”, he told me. “And when we got a case like this, with a man apparently murdered by his own son... well!”

It was fortunate that the great house was situated close to the railway line – indeed, it was one of only four buildings I could make out in the evening light, and presumably the main reason for the halt. The sergeant kindly suggested that we should be shown to our rooms in order to freshen up, and I took the opportunity to send a message to the kitchen pleading for coffee. It was worth it when we came downstairs and Sherlock's eyes lit up at the steaming coffee-pot. The sergeant had clearly read my stories well enough not to stand between my friend and his caffeine fix, otherwise we might well have had two murders on our hands!

Some little time later, I and a mercifully re-caffeinated consulting detective were shown into the room where the body had been found. Sherlock looked around disapprovingly.

“A herd of elephants might as well have come through!” he snorted, sitting gently in one of the huge armchairs with his fourth or fifth cup. “Still, at least you can fill us in on what happened, sergeant, and where better than here?”

The policeman nodded. 

“I should explain that this is an important place”, he began. “There has been a house at Foulkes Rath since the time the Vikings held sway here; legend says that the original Fulk chose the rising land to build a fort, or rath, on this very site, hence the name. The village, such as it is, has a similar name but in Gaelic; Dunlochlann means 'fort of the Viking'. This building dates back to the start of the eighteenth century; its predecessor was destroyed by fire. The railway only came through some twenty-odd years ago, and the halt was provided in return for access onwards; the Urquharts own a huge swathe of land hereabouts, mostly for shooting. There are no roads, but a track runs round via the lochs to Halkirk, which is just over a mile away and the next station towards Wick.”

“The dead man is – was – Mr. Angus Urquhart, lord of the manor. He had assembled a small gathering of guests to mark his seventieth birthday, which was on the seventeenth. All seemed well until a message arrived, at exactly a quarter to eight....”

“How do you know that? Sherlock cut in.

“The butler, Turner, went to the door, and he remembered that the clock was striking the three-quarter hour as he opened it.”

“Very observant of him”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

“Mr. Angus and his guests were just finishing dinner, and about to adjourn to the games-room for some port and a few turns at cards”, the sergeant said. “His Lordship did not react visibly when he saw the message, but took it to his study, perhaps to lock it away. When he did not come back to the party, his eldest son Mr. Fergus came looking for him.”

The sergeant reached into his long sock and produced what I assumed was his own weapon. It was similar to a dagger, just under a foot long and with an engraved blade. I shuddered at the sight of it.

“This is mine”, he said, “but it is about the same size as the one found by Mr. Angus. And that weapon, gentlemen, was the property of Mr. Fergus. _The new lord of the manor.”_

“Ah”, Sherlock said.

“You see my point”, the sergeant said grimly. “Mr. Fergus had motive; he was heir to the estate. He had means; the weapon found at the scene of the crime. And he had the opportunity, as he was alone with the victim.”

“Yet the fact that we are here at the far and very cold end of Great Britain suggests that you do not think him guilty”, Sherlock said. “Why?”

The sergeant scratched his head.

“Don't really know”, he admitted ruefully. “It just seems a bit _too_ easy. Mr. Fergus denies it, but it looks very bad. And then there was the note.”

“What note?” Sherlock asked.

The sergeant handed over a piece of writing-paper to Sherlock, and I leaned across to read it. It said 'Fergus – a killer?', and was underlined twice. Sherlock frowned.

“Did you tackle Mr. Fergus Urquhart about this?” he asked.

“I asked if there was anything in his past that would have merited such a claim”, the sergeant said. “He hummed and hahed a bit, but eventually admitted that he had killed one of those witch-doctors whilst he was serving as a medico in Africa a few years back. The guy had ordered seven children from a village to be put to death 'to appease the spirits', he claimed, and was charging at him with a knife when he tried to stop him. One bullet put a stop to that sort of nonsense. Jock down at the station remembered that fortunately enough; his nephew does missionary work.”

“So Mr. Fergus is a doctor?” I asked.

“As is his son”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Fergus is chief medico at the surgery up in Thurso, whilst his son Mr. Francis is based in Halkirk, the nest stop down the line, and does all the countryside hereabouts. The victim had two other sons; Mr. Andrew is visiting his aunt over in the United States, and Mr. Douglas is away in London just now. There is also a daughter, but she married and went to live in Norway with her husband.”

“That will of course all have to be confirmed”, Sherlock said. “Does Mr. Andrew have any children?”

“He married three years back, sir, to a Dutch lady. They had two children before they separated. Very bad, it was; she went back to her country. Local opinion was it was her fault, though.”

“Who else was here at the time of the murder?” Sherlock asked.

“Apart from the servants, just two”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Aedh MacLeod, the estate manager, and Mr. Michael Stirling, Lord Angus' legal man. I have my doubts about Mr. MacLeod. He was known to have disagreed with the victim over the way he wanted the estate run. And he is one of those fellows who always thinks that he knows best.”

“Atbara!” I suddenly exclaimed. 

Both Sherlock and the sergeant looked at me as if they thought that I had gone mad, but were too polite to say.

“That is where I saw the name Urquhart of late!” I told them. “Last year. The decisive battle against the Mahdists, in Sudan. We only lost twenty-six men, but there was an Urquhart amongst them, and I remember the article saying that he was the last of his line.”

“That would have been Major Beauchamp Urquhart”, the sergeant said. “Yes, I wondered about that, especially with events here. The Clan Urquhart has no leader just now, and the different branches have each been getting ready to state their claims. And Mr. Stirling did say he had been called here a lot in recent times, though of course he would not go into details.”

“Quite right and proper”, Sherlock said. “How and when was the body discovered?”

“There is no telegraph office here, of course”, the sergeant said, “so they have an arrangement that messages go to Halkirk, and then get sent back from there on foot. But the telegraph line is down just now, so I understand that they are sending the messages to Helmsdale, way back down the line, and they are then sent up by train to Halkirk. This telegram, along with two others, came up on the evening goods train. I talked with the stationmaster at Halkirk, and he says that the other two messages were both for Thurso, so he let them go on, stamped the one for Foules Rath as received and sent his son out with it.”

“I do not suppose that the butler succumbed to the sin of human curiosity, and looked at it?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant grinned.

“He did not, but the boy noticed who it was from”, he said. “I tracked the name to a firm of the top lawyers in London. It seemed that Mr. Angus was thinking his own fellow was not up to the job.”

“If Mr. Stirling knew or suspected that fact, then that gives him motive as well”, Sherlock said. “What happened next?”

“The three others went to the games-room and played a set of billiards before the absence of their host was noticed”, the sergeant said. “It was sometime between half-past eight and a quarter to nine before Mr. Fergus went to see what was holding him up. He claims that he found his father dead, with his own _skean-dhu_ \- which he claimed to have had stolen the week before - lying next to him. He not unnaturally picked it up – and Turner chose that moment to appear! Talk about poor timing! The butler had just served drinks to the other gentlemen, and went to see what if anything Mr. Fergus wanted. He thinks that the fellow was only out of the room for about a minute before he followed him, but he cannot be sure about that. It may have been a little longer.”

“And then?” Sherlock prompted.

“A servant was dispatched to ride to Doctor Francis in Halkirk, and about an hour later, he got here. The boy nearly missed him; he'd gone out for his evening stroll as usual, and was returning to his house when the boy was starting to look elsewhere for him. He examined the body, and estimated the time of death to be about eight thirty, just when his father had entered the room – he had no way of knowing that, of course. It appeared that the dead man may have been chloroformed before being stabbed, judging from fragments of cloth found caught in his beard. The doctor said that death would have been almost instantaneous from the location of the wound.”

Something that a doctor, like the victim's son would know, I thought.

“The telegram?” I asked.

“That was the other odd part”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Angus apparently set his own fire – Turner told me that he hardly ever did that – and it was burning merrily when the butler entered the room. He said that the place was stiflingly hot, so it had to have been going for a while. As we could not find it, I presume that the telegram went up in smoke, though what was on it we will never know.”

“The London lawyers might tell us, once they understand that it is part of a murder investigation”, Sherlock said. “You were right to call us in, sergeant. This really is a most interesting case. Of course the solution is fairly obvious, but I will need to spend a day checking my facts.”

We both stared at him.

“Obvious?” the sergeant said at last. “How? _Who?”_

“I hope that Mr. Fergus can accommodate us for another night, even though he is the one under suspicion”, Sherlock said. 

“Of course”, the sergeant said, looking at him suspiciously. “I will go and arrange things.”

He left. 

“You know who did it?” I asked.

“I can be fairly certain”, he said. “However, I would still like to check my facts. And I really would like some sleep. I hardly got any on the way up.”

“And who's fault was that?” I shot back. 

“Mine”, he said unashamedly. “But I shall do better on the way back.”

I little knew then what he meant by that at the time, but made a mental note to make sure the house staff knew to ensure Sherlock got his coffee the following morning. I valued my life.

And my backside!

+~+~+

After breakfast (with coffee, thankfully!), we were met by the sergeant.

“There has been a Development, sirs”, he said, sounding almost mournful about it.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Someone has stolen a bottle of chloroform from Doctor Francis Urquhart's surgery”, Sherlock said. The sergeant stared at him in shock.

“How the blazes did you know that?” he demanded. “I only just got here from Halkirk!”

“Because it is what I expected to happen”, Sherlock said frankly. “I assume that he informed you when he discovered the loss this morning?”

“He did”, the sergeant said, looking suspiciously at my friend. “Professional job too; from the looks of things they used a lock-pick, and they even managed to re-lock the cupboard after themselves, polishing over the scratches they made. The doctor only found it because he needed something from the cupboard for one of today's patients; he only opens it once a week on average.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock beamed. “That is exactly what I had hoped would happen. The doctor and I intend to do some sight-seeing today whilst I await certain important information that I have requested, but this evening we will, with your assistance, attempt a reconstruction of the crime. By the way, who has access to Doctor Francis Urquhart's surgery?”

“His family, of course, and Mr. MacLeod, who lives next door but one. The doctor is a bit forgetful, and has locked himself out of his own house on more than one occasion. Mrs. MacLeod keeps a spare key for him.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock smiled. “Come, doctor. We have one call to make, then I fancy taking a carriage to the tourist trap that John o' Groats undoubtedly is, so that we may claim to have stood at the end of Great Britain.”

The sergeant looked a little annoyed, but clearly reckoned (correctly) that Sherlock would help him only when he was ready. I went to get my stick.

+~+~+

We went to the station, and Sherlock spent some time examining both the platform and track-bed before a northbound train drew in and stuttered to a halt. Apart from Foulkes Rath and the three other houses that comprised the hamlet of Dunlochlann, the empty tundra stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, and I was reminded that this was how the whole island of Great Britain must once have looked back in the Ice Age. And if the scientists were right, would one day look again, hopefully many years into the future.

To my surprise we only went one stop before alighting at Halkirk, where Sherlock asked to see the boy who had brought the message to the house that night. The stationmaster, Terence MacLeod (no relation to the estate manager, it turned out) looked uncertain at this, but was reassured when Sherlock insisted that he remain for what would only be a short interview. His son, Hugh, was a wiry twelve-year-old boy who clearly feared the worst, judging from his slight shaking.

“You strike me as an observant young lad”, Sherlock said. “I assume from what I have seen that you walked down the line to take the message to the house?”

“I did, sir”, the boy said politely. “The road round is nearly twice as far, and I knew that if I got there quick enough, I could catch the last train back. Trains up here are few and far between.”

“What happened when you handed over your telegram?” Sherlock asked.

The boy glanced nervously at his father, who nodded.

“Mr. Turner, sir, he took it to the master, and he came back almost at once. No reply, he said, and gave me a threepence for my trouble. I was back at the station just as the train was coming in.”

Sherlock nodded, and leant forward.

“Did anyone else get on at Dunlochlann?” 

The boy hesitated, but shook his head. Sherlock frowned.

“The truth, please, Master MacLeod!” he said firmly.

“No-one got off and there was no-one on the platform, sir, but I thought I heard a door shut whilst I was in the carriage”, the boy said quietly. “I think it was on the far side of the train, so I thought someone was just hitching a ride, like me. Though Mr. Jones – the stationmaster there – he doesn't mind if I do it. Honest!”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Thank you”, he smiled. “The doctor and I need to explore your station yard for a time, but you have been most helpful.”

He pressed a florin into the surprised boy's hand, smiled at him, then led me out. 

“What are we looking for?” I asked. 

“That”, he said, gesturing to a lone siding with a few wind-scarred trucks sitting forlornly in it.”

“A line of trucks?” I queried, feeling totally lost.

He did not answer, but led me down the platform ramp and across the tracks until we were round behind the trucks. Beyond the siding were a couple of dilapidated sheds, which Sherlock seemed to find fascinating, and I found.... not. Whatever he was looking for, he had clearly found it if his happy expression was anything to go by.

“Come”, he said. “We shall hire a carriage in this town and drive to the end of the world for the day, then return and set Sergeant Duffy's mind at rest. But we shall pay a short call first.”

+~+~+

Sherlock's short call was barely five minutes, to the surgery of Doctor Francis Urquhart to express his condolences and to presumably ask more questions about the stolen chloroform. When he returned he was still smiling, which I took to be a good sign.

It was a lovely day, and mercifully the gusty winds of the day before had abated. Sherlock drove us to the town of Wick first, where we had an early lunch before heading north. John o' Groats turned out to be one of those villages which seemed to go on forever, but it was memorable to stand there with my friend, his impossible hair blown into an even worse state than usual by the strong winds around the top of Scotland. We then adjourned to spend the afternoon in Thurso, a quaint little town with some pleasant shops. I was sorry to leave it, but I felt a rising sense of anticipation as we moved on to the stables in Halkirk, to find the sergeant waiting impatiently for us.

“Thank you for your forbearance, sergeant”, Sherlock smiled. “I will now attempt to show you how the murder was perpetrated. I am afraid it will involve a good deal of travelling, but it should prove conclusive at the end.”

He returned the carriage, and I was surprised when he emerged with three fresh horses. We each mounted one, and he led us down to a quiet side-road. 

“Our murderer planned this very well”, he said softly. “He begins by leaving Halkirk and walking to Dunlochlann along the back roads. He knows the area well, so he is able to avoid being seen. Fortunately, sergeant, it rained the night before the murder and has been dry since, so if you and your men follow this road, you may find footprints.”

“Why not use the railway track?” the sergeant asked. “It Is much quicker.”

“As I said, he could not risk being seen”, Sherlock explained, “and the railway is much more open than the roads. Since we do not wish to trample on potential evidence, we will afford ourselves that convenience.”

He turned his horse and led us back and then down another road, which intersected with the railway track. He turned onto it, and headed down the single-track line back to Dunlochlann and Foulkes Rath. Some way before the halt, he pulled off the tracks and rode under one of the few trees in this barren landscape. We pulled in alongside him and he dismounted.

“The road ahead is the one from Halkirk”, he said, pointing to where a barely-passable dirt track crossed the line a short distance ahead of us. “We shall leave the horses here and take that road. I believe that our murderer, thinking there was an outside chance of his being seen even in this remote spot, would have cut across the fields to Foulkes Rath in order to kill Mr. Angus Urquhart.”

“Who was it?” the sergeant pressed as we joined him on the ground.

“His grandson, Doctor Francis Urquhart.”

The sergeant stared at Sherlock as if he had gone mad.

“How the blazes did he kill him before he even got there?” he demanded. “I do not believe it!”

Sherlock pulled out his watch and looked at it.

“That evening, a goods train brings the telegram which, so we first thought, had a bearing on this case”, he said. “In fact it had none whatsoever, but the killer was able to use it to his advantage. The goods train reaches Halkirk at around twenty minutes past seven...”

“Wait a minute”, I objected. “Why did the driver not give the message to the stationmaster at Dunlochlann when he stopped there?”

“Because he would only hand it over to where he knew there was a telegraph office that could stamp it as received”, Sherlock explained. “Otherwise, if it had gone astray, he might lose his job. The practice is technically unlawful, but the railway company will turn a blind eye as long as nothing goes missing. The line to Halkirk telegraph office may be out of action, but they can still stamp inbound telegrams for people in the area.”

“Oh”, I said. “I see.”

“The train reaches Halkirk a little before half-past seven, and the telegram is handed over”, Sherlock went on. The stationmaster there sends his son back down the tracks with the telegram, knowing that there are no trains due before he reaches his destination, and that his son can catch the last passenger train of the day back. Plus, with the days as long as they are this far North, it will not be dark. The doctor is headed in the same direction, most fortunately for him on the back roads. I estimate that he must have seen the boy go up to the front of Foulkes Rath from the tracks that he had to cross, but his own destination was the back.”

“Matters play right into his hands. On reading the telegram, which was probably only clarification of some minor legal point, Mr. Angus Urquhart adjourns to his study to think matters over. It must have been incredibly close, for I estimate that his grandson must have reached the back entrance to that study at almost the exact same time. He sees that his grandfather is alone, and knocks at the glass. His grandfather is surprised, but of course admits him. It is relatively easy for the doctor to first chloroform him, then stab him. The only danger is that someone may interrupt them, but as he intends to frame his father for his grandfather's death, he is prepared to risk all for such high stakes.”

“What?” the sergeant exclaimed.

“Who else would have access to his father's _skean-dhu_?” Sherlock asked mercilessly. “He lays and stokes up the fire, because it is better that the body temperature be kept high to imply a later death, even though he intends to be the one to examine the body. He reads the telegram, and sees an opportunity to include it in his plan, throwing it on the fire. Its disappearance will confuse matters, and even if the London lawyers tell what was in it, the police may think that the message contained some hidden meaning known only to the recipient. He then leaves, and heads back across the fields and round to the station. It is approximately five minutes past eight.”

“Just moments later, the last passenger train of the day arrives at Dunlochlann Station. It is only a single platform, so it is easy for the doctor to slip around the blind side of the train and get himself into a carriage at the back. The conductor cannot access the carriage until it reaches Halkirk, and on arrival there our killer leaves the train again on the blind side, slipping behind the trucks into the siding. If you go and look there, sergeant, you will find a rather distinctive set of footprints which you should be able to link to Doctor Francis' boots.”

“Next, he strolls back to the surgery, making a point of calling in briefly at the local tavern. He meets the boy who bears the news that his grandfather had been brutally murdered. Shocked, he rides to the scene, and is able to claim that the murder happened at least half an hour after it actually did, at a time when he was in Halkirk. The perfect alibi. Not forgetting, of course, the note.”

“But that pointed at his father”, I said. “'Fergus - a killer?'” 

Sherlock shook his head.

“That may be what hangs him”, he said. “The note itself was written by Dr. Francis, on a sheet of paper he had extracted from his grandfather's writing-paper one day. But that particular high-quality notepaper numbers its sheets. The note was on sheet twenty-one – but sheet twenty-two, the next one down and the one on top when the body was found, bore no impression. Yet why would a man who has a quality writing-desk take one sheet away, write a few words on it, then leave it in so obvious a place that anyone could find it?”

“We have him!” the sergeant said firmly.

+~+~+

He did. As well as the footprints Sherlock had found in the siding at Halkirk, more were found not only down the road from Halkirk to Dunlochlann, but also on the gravel outside the dead man's study and, most incriminating of all, a partial footprint from where he had hauled the body across to the fire. He denied it at first, but when his whole family disowned him it seemed to break him, and he confessed all. I felt sorry for his own young family, who had to cope with the loss of their provider, but it was justice. A life for a life.

+~+~+

I must admit that I was a little surprised that Sherlock chose to break our journey home at Inverness for two days, even though the little town was rather charming, but I assumed that he had his reasons. He did, as I would soon find out. But not before a minor 'incident' in the charming capital of the Far North.

Sherlock and I were exploring the small town that evening when we came to a kilt shop. Despite my general dislike of my Scots heritage, I was overcome with a sudden urge to have one. Of course it was not that simple; it turned out that there were several Campbell tartans, and if I wanted the correct one – the salesman looked at me in horror when I asked why this was important, as if I had committed some unimaginable _faux pas_ – I would have to have it made especially and posted to me in London. Fortunately he was able to locate the correct tartan from my mother's birth-town, Jedburgh.

Of course, I had to put my foot in it (again) by asking Sherlock if he had any Scots blood in his family.

“My mother's great-grandmother was an Ulster MacDonnell, originally from the Isle of Jura”, he said. “I believe that her family crossed the North Channel as part of King James the First's Ulster Plantation.”

The salesman looked at him in surprise, then at me before scurrying away. I once again sensed that I had done something wrong.

“What is his problem?” I wondered. Sherlock chuckled.

“The MacDonnells are a branch of the Scottish MacDonalds”, he explained, “some of whose brethren were done to death on the orders of a Campbell in Glencoe back in sixteen hundred and ninety-two. Some Scots have long memories over such things.”

I shuddered, reminded of that terrible atrocity perpetrated in the name of William of Orange. Fortunately the salesman chose that moment to return with a mostly reddish tartan, which turned out to be that of the MacDonnells. As they had it in Sherlock's size, he decided to try it on. 

I skulked around the shop, trying to avoid what I was sure was the salesman's disapproving look. Look, I could not help my ancestors! A cough from behind me told me Sherlock was ready. I turned round, and.....

Oh. My. God!

I honestly thought that I was going to pass out! Sherlock Castiel Holmes was a good-looking man normally, but with that kilt and his white shirt, he looked absolutely gorgeous. 

“That looks... good on you”, I managed.

He looked at me in concern, then smiled knowingly.

“I may not be a true Scotsman”, he whispered in my ear, “but I am not wearing anything underneath this!”

“Buy it!” I almost snarled. He grinned at my desperation, and bastard that he was, proceeded to take far too long to make the purchase from the smirking salesman. I all but dragged him out of the shop and back to our hotel which, mercifully, was in the same street. Because walking was suddenly very difficult.

We must have made a sight, I thought (much) later, especially the middle-aged gentleman who seemed to be having severe breathing difficulties and was all but draping himself over his friend. It did not help either that our room was on the second floor, and all those stairs were sheer agony. Finally though we were through the door, which I just about had the sense to lock behind me. I gathered my breath, turned back to Sherlock – and nearly had a seizure!

The man was lying on the bed, his white shirt open at his chest and the sporran pushed to one side by the notable tent in the centre of the kilt. I did not even bother to try getting undressed, but whipped my painfully hard erect cock out and nearly ran into him, whimpering with need. I barely had the sense to remember to finger him open, whining in anticipation, and in barely a minute I was pushing home, my whines changing to a guttural snarl as I claimed what was mine!

“Is that it?” he asked cheekily. 

I scowled at him. Right, he was asking for it. Uncaring of what I was about to do to his recent purchase I went all in, thrusting as deep as I could, growling my desire and arching my back in sheer pleasure at being inside this glorious creature. He responded by pushing back to meet every single one of my thrusts, as if he wanted to become a permanent attachment to me, then he seemed to freeze before coming with a grunt of his own. I wished this could last forever, but I was too far gone, and in seconds I was following him over the edge, painting his insides whilst I fell untidily on top of him and his now come-smeared kilt.

+~+~+

We did not see much of Inverness the next day, except for the hotel restaurant. And the bath in the bathroom. Oh, and Sherlock had to buy another kilt. 

Make that two kilts.

+~+~+

We left Inverness the next day, and after a change to the North British Railway at Perth, we reached the Scottish capital. I had assumed that we might explore the city a little whilst we waited for the night sleeper in a few hours' time, but instead Sherlock led the way onto the afternoon express to King's Cross. I was about to follow, but to my surprise he took his bag and pulled the door shut on me.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“This is where we part”, he smiled. “I will see you in a week.”

The guard blew his whistle and the train began to pull out of the station. I stared dumbly at the carriage began to move away from me. No! He could not be leaving me again! I couldn't cope.....

Then I felt a large hand on my shoulder and I spun round defensively, only for my mouth to drop open.

Sammy!

“Hullo, 'little' brother!” he teased. I punched him for that, and he winced in mock agony.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Your friend did not tell you?” he asked.

“Tell me what?”

“He arranged everything”, Sammy beamed. “Jess is off with two of her friends for a relaxing week in Harrogate, the children are all being looked after by that nanny company, and I've been given a whole week off to spend teasing a sibling who is three inches shorter than me!”

I probably – no, certainly – looked dumb standing there like a goldfish, but I could not believe it. A whole week with Sammy. And Sherlock had arranged it all! God, I loved that man, in or out of a kilt.

All right, preferably out!

“You look a little pale, John”, my brother said concernedly. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes!” I said. “Just..... it's been a little up and down these past few days.”

Sammy looked at me for a moment before he got it, and pulled one of his patented bitch-faces. How I had missed those!

+~+~+

In our next case, Sherlock proves that he delivers justice for both great and small.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: People forget (or are too dumb to notice) that the two northern mainland counties of Scotland are Nordic in nature - Caithness' neighbour Sutherland means literally the southern (in respect to Norway) land. And the people are quite feisty. Despite the Gaelic language being spoken by under 2% of its 24,000 population, the cash-strapped (ahem!) Highland Council recently insisted on putting in dual-language road signs. One of the first ones lasted twenty-four hours before it was shattered by rifle fire; naturally this was immediately termed 'a hate crime', and was doubtless investigated by several dozen of the 'overstretched' Police Scotland.


End file.
